MR. HENLEY’S household had been again established in London, when a servant appeared one morning with a visiting card, and announced that a gentleman had called who wished to see Miss Henley. She looked at the card. The gentleman was Mr. Vimpany.
On the point of directing the man to say that she was engaged, Iris checked herself.
Mrs. Vimpany’s farewell words had produced a strong impression on her. There had been moments of doubt and gloom in her later life, when the remembrance of that unhappy woman was associated with a feeling (perhaps a morbid feeling) of self-reproach. It seemed to be hard on the poor penitent wretch not to have written to her. Was she still leading the same dreary life in the mouldering old town? Or had she made another attempt to return to the ungrateful stage? The gross husband, impudently presenting himself with his card and his message, could answer those questions if he could do nothing else. For that reason only Iris decided that she would receive Mr. Vimpany.
On entering the room, she found two discoveries awaiting her, for which she was entirely unprepared.
The doctor’s personal appearance exhibited a striking change; he was dressed, in accordance with the strictest notions of professional propriety, entirely in black. More remarkable still, there happened to be a French novel among the books on the table — and that novel Mr. Vimpany, barbarous Mr. Vimpany, was actually reading with an appearance of understanding it!
“I seem to surprise you,” said the doctor. “Is it this?” He held up the French novel as he put the question.
“I must own that I was not aware of the range of your accomplishments,” Iris answered.
“Oh, don’t talk of accomplishments! I learnt my profession in Paris. For nigh on three years I lived among the French medical students. Noticing this book on the table, I thought I would try whether I had forgotten the language — in the time that has passed (you know) since those days. Well, my memory isn’t a good one in most things, but strange to say (force of habit, I suppose), some of my French sticks by me still. I hope I see you well, Miss Henley. Might I ask if you noticed the new address, when I sent up my card?”
“I only noticed your name.”
The doctor produced his pocket-book, and took out a second card. With pride he pointed to the address: “5 Redburn Road, Hampstead Heath.” With pride he looked at his black clothes. “Strictly professional, isn’t it?” he said. “I have bought a new practice; and I have become a new man. It isn’t easy at first. No, by jingo — I beg your pardon — I was about to say, my own respectability rather bothers me; I shall get used to it in time. If you will allow me, I’ll take a liberty. No offence, I hope?”
He produced a handful of his cards, and laid them out in a neat little semicircle on the table.
“A word of recommendation, when you have the chance, would be a friendly act on your part,” he explained. “Capital air in Redburn Road, and a fine view of the Heath out of the garret windows — but it’s rather an out-of-the-way situation. Not that I complain; beggars mustn’t be choosers. I should have preferred a practice in a fashionable part of London; but our little windfall of money —”
He came to a full stop in the middle of a sentence. The sale of the superb diamond pin, by means of which Lord Harry had repaid Mrs. Vimpany’s services, was, of all domestic events, the last which it might be wise to mention in the presence of Miss Henley. He wa............